


The Last Good Thing About This Part Of Town

by Lenore



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitute, Dubious Consent, Handcuffs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-01
Updated: 2009-06-01
Packaged: 2017-10-03 17:34:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dirtycop!Patrick and hooker!Pete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Good Thing About This Part Of Town

Patrick's very first day on patrol, Oscar Stankowski, the veteran cop he'd been assigned to during his probationary period, told him the way things worked: "This is a shitty part of town full of shitty people nobody cares about. We're gods on these streets. We can do anything we want, take anything we like. It doesn't make up for the crap pay or the fact that some knucklehead could come along and blow you away any damn time, but it's something. So enjoy it."

Patrick spent a year riding along with Stankowski, watching in disgust as he went off to coerce sex out of working girls, took bribes from drug-dealing scumbags, extorted protection money from local businesses. Patrick was never going to be that kind of cop. That was what he'd told himself.

He pulls his patrol car into the familiar spot, parks, sits at the wheel, staring at the scarred brick wall. He could drive away, get back to work, protect and serve, live up to all those lofty ambitions he'd had when he applied to the academy. But he doesn't.

He hasn't even turned into the alleyway when he hears it, breathy whine, low guttural grunts, the sounds of sex. He clenches his jaw, and the muscles tighten low in his belly. He keeps going, and there's Pete, in the usual spot where he plies his trade, getting fucked against the wall by a customer. The john is middle-aged, sweaty, chanting under his breath, "Take it, just take it, you fucking whore."

Pete's tight leather pants are shoved down around his knees, his fingers curl into the loose mortar between the bricks, holding on while the john pounds away at him. "Yeah, yeah, give it to me, baby, give it to me hard." He sounds like a worn out recording. He sounds bored.

Patrick doesn't know what it is about Pete, why he keeps coming back for more. Sure, Pete is fucking gorgeous. But there are only a million other pretty pieces of ass in this town, and none of them makes Patrick forget everything he's supposed to stand for. Only Pete does that.

The john comes with a stifled groan, pulls out, zips up. Pete wriggles his pants back up, fixes one of those sleepy smiles of his on the trick. He knows what's good for business. The trick, though, doesn't understand the rules, or maybe just doesn't care. He grabs Pete by the jaw, ham-fisted and greedy, trying to pull him into a kiss.

Pete turns his head sharply, a reflex of disgust, and then quickly tries to mollify the guy. "Hey, it was a good ride, huh, baby?"

The john's face darkens ominously. "You fucking little bitch. You think you're too good to kiss me? I'll show you what you're good for, you filthy slut."

He lifts his hand, fingers clenched into a fist, ready to beat the shit out of Pete, but Patrick gets there first. His baton makes a satisfying sound as he presses it just a little too hard into the john's windpipe.

"Officer Lunchbox." Pete's face lights up like he's glad to see Patrick, and not just because Patrick is hauling a violent john off him right at the moment.

The john, on the other hand, is not so pleased to see Patrick. He throws an elbow in a feeble attempt to escape.

"Not going to help you, baby," Pete tells him. "Officer Lunchbox really knows how to use his nightstick." His voice dips into a sultrier octave on the last word.

The john immediately bursts into tears, as johns tend to do when they're busted, and starts babbling. Patrick can't make out most of it, but he does catch the words "please" and "my wife."

Patrick tells him, "I could take you down to the station."

The john cries harder.

"Or I could let you off with a warning, and you can pay a $50 fine for being an asshole."

"What?" The john blinks. "You want me to pay you?" There's a trickle of snot running out of his nose.

"The station it is, then." Patrick whips out his handcuffs.

"No, no!" The john grabs his wallet from his pocket so frantically there's the sound of ripping fabric. "Fifty bucks. I got it right here." He holds the money out to Patrick.

"I'm not the one you were an asshole to." The john stares at him in confusion, and Patrick glances meaningfully over at Pete.

The john shoves the cash at Pete and runs off down the alley, panting like he's about to have a heart attack, looking back over his shoulder at least three times to see if Patrick is chasing him.

Pete pockets the money. "I guess you're good for business, after all." His smile is big and sunny.

_This time it's going to be different,_ Patrick tells himself. _This time I won't._

Pete gives him a look through his lashes. "You've got the cuffs out. Aren't you going to take me in?" His voice goes gravelly. "I've been a very bad boy."

It's the worst cliché ever, and it should be ridiculous. It certainly shouldn't turn Patrick on like nothing else ever has. He has no explanation for it.

Patrick pulls Pete's arms behind his back and clicks on the cuffs. Pete's hands are large, long-fingered, but his wrists are delicate. Patrick can't help stroking his thumb along the edge of the steel bracelet, can't help moving closer into the warmth of Pete's body. He presses his face against Pete's neck and breathes him in. It's just old sweat and even more ancient cologne. Patrick doesn't know why it smells so good.

Pete leans back into him and says, "Teach me a lesson, Lunchbox. You know I've got it coming."

Patrick doesn't have to be invited twice. He hustles Pete down the alley and over to the car. The spot where he always parks is tucked away, sheltered from prying eyes, a carefully calculated move. Patrick can never claim, even to himself, that anything about this is any kind of accident.

He pushes Pete into the backseat, and Pete sprawls there, the open vee of his pants showing off the tight, flat muscles of his belly, inked skin, the dark line of pubic hair. The effect this has on Patrick must be obvious, because Pete leans back against the seat and spreads his legs, a smirk on his face.

In the close space of the car, Patrick is all too aware of the lingering scent of sex, the smell of another man on Pete. Anger burns in his belly, absurd really, since Pete is a _hooker_. But Patrick doesn't care how ridiculous it is. He grabs Pete's jaw, forces his chin around, and pushes their mouths together, his tongue tracing the line between Pete's lips. He _loves_ taking what Pete's johns can never have.

"They can buy you," he growls, "but I fucking _own_ you."

Pete reacts, always does to things like this, his breath catching, eyes going bigger, darker. Patrick doesn't know if Pete really does get off on being dominated, or if it's all just part of the act. What Patrick does know is that Pete looks like a wet dream come to life spread out on the backseat for him.

"You going to keep these on?" Pete jerks his head toward the cuffs. "Or are you going to let me touch you?"

Patrick has to think about it. He's woken up more than once with his boxers sticking to his body, his heart trying to pound out of his chest, a dream lingering in his head of Pete cuffed to his bed and Patrick having his way with him.

Still, Pete touching him is good, too. Patrick unlocks the cuffs, tosses them into the floorboard. Pete is all over him in an instant, licking Patrick's throat, undoing his shirt, kissing his chest. He's always eager, and Patrick consoles himself with this, with the fact that he's never threatened Pete with jail if he doesn't give it up, never forced him against his will. Patrick is no Oscar Stankowski. Not yet. Not exactly. He clings to this.

"You are so fucking gorgeous," Pete says, panting. "Too pretty to be a cop."

Patrick knows he's no such thing. He grabs Pete by the hair, pulls him in for a biting kiss. "Save the fucking hooker talk."

Pete bites Patrick back, on the jaw. "You think I say that to everyone? Well, I fucking don't. Those other guys, they don't do this to me." He takes Patrick's hand, moves it to his crotch. Pete is hot and hard. Patrick strokes him through the leather of his pants. Pete whispers in Patrick's ear as he unbuckles his belt, "They don't make me come like you do."

Patrick has been hard since he stepped into that alley, since he saw Pete with his pants down around his knees, and he gets even harder in Pete's hand. He grabs at Pete's shoulders, pulling him in, kissing frantically, while he peels Pete's pants down his legs, kicks off his own trousers. He rolls on a condom, maneuvers Pete onto his back, urges his legs wider apart and touches his hole. He's wet, already used that night, who knows how many times. Patrick bites back a lecture about condoms, about being _fucking careful_. It's none of his business. They don't have that kind of relationship. They don't have _any_ relationship. It's just fucking. That's all.

He does his best to ignore the pang in his chest at the thought of Pete sick. Suffering. Just sex. Just sex.

Pete smiles up at him sweetly, threading his fingers through Patrick's hair. "Not every guy is the gentleman you are."

Patrick doesn't know why he needs to prove Pete wrong, but he does. He shoves two fingers, hard and fast, into Pete's ass, no preparation, no warning. Pete bucks up, gasping, grinding down onto Patrick's fingers, his body begging for more, _more_.

"Shit, shit," Patrick mutters.

His skin feels like it's burning, and his stomach hurts he's so aroused. He presses his palms to the insides of Pete's thighs, spreading them even wider apart, moves on top of him, and pushes inside. Pete cries out, grappling at Patrick's shoulders, his legs winding around Patrick's waist.

Pete is so hot inside, so tight, so… "Fucking amazing," Patrick groans out loud.

"Yeah, yeah, fuck me." Pete digs his heels into Patrick's back, urging him on.

Patrick finds his rhythm, deep, long thrusts. Pete makes little mewling noises, which are just desperately hot, and Patrick licks at his mouth, like he's trying to taste the sound. He cups his hands beneath Pete's ass, pulling him into his thrusts. This must change the angle, because Pete's body jerks violently, his eyes flying wide open.

"Oh, fuck. Fuck yeah. Right there." Pete bites his lip. His cock is blood dark, leaking against his belly. He is so fucking beautiful it makes Patrick's throat hurt.

Patrick pounds away at that sweet spot, making Pete writhe, making him beg, and that's just so damned good.

Pete whimpers, working his hand between their bodies, pulling at his cock. "Patrick. _Patrick_."

"Shit!" Patrick hisses, his hips stuttering.

He has no idea how Pete found out his first name. He only ever uses it when Patrick is balls deep inside him, and it shouldn't keep coming as a shock. It shouldn't still make Patrick feel like he's got live current running through him to hear it. But it does. It fucking _does_.

"I'm going to—" Pete thrashes his head. "I can't—"

Against all odds, Pete isn't a screamer. He lets out this soft breathy sigh when he comes, and Patrick loves that sound. He loves it so fucking much. He closes his eyes and presses his forehead against Pete's shoulder and thrusts wildly, all sense of rhythm gone. He's holding onto Pete like he never wants to let him go when he comes.

He slumps heavily on top of Pete, warm and sated, but it doesn't take long for the afterglow to fade. It never does. Guilt is a hard fist squeezing his heart as he pulls out, sits up, yanks his pants on, buttons his shirt with shaking fingers. The smell of sex is all over everything, and this isn't why Patrick toughed it out at the police academy, so he could fuck hookers in the back seat of his patrol car. He resolves never to do it again, to get the hell out of here and leave Pete the fuck alone, just like he's promised himself before. He expects to be just as successful this time.

As if to prove the feebleness of Patrick's will, Pete grabs him by the shirt and hauls him in for a deep, wet kiss. Patrick cups the back of Pete's head, not even trying to pretend he's resisting.

Pete rubs his cheek against Patrick's, smiling. "I own you too, Lunchbox." He licks Patrick's ear, and then he's out the door and gone.

Patrick staggers around the car to the driver's side and gets behind the wheel. He takes a deep breath and lets it out.

The fucking kicker is: Pete's absolutely right.


End file.
